


Bourgeois Burgers

by Zumberge



Category: Original Work
Genre: Communism, Gen, Mental Transformation, Mind Manipulation, Reverse Slob, Transformation, slob, weight loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28391568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zumberge/pseuds/Zumberge
Summary: There is no ethical consumption under capitalism, except for the secret sauce.(I really hope that this gets brought up as evidence of me being a counter-revolutionary during my inevitable show trial.)





	Bourgeois Burgers

"Yeeeeeeees." Doctor Lysenko leered at the bubbling network of tubes, flasks, and multi-colored fluids on the laboratory table. "Yes! It's working! My hypothesis was true!" He lifted a beaker of deep red fluid off of one end of the assembly, holding it aloft in reverence. "Vaskhnil! Come here!"

Vaskhnil entered the room; he was younger than Lysenko, though that was saying little. "Yes, doctor?"

"I have it!" he exclaimed, gesturing to the beaker.

"Fantastic, doctor!" A beat. "What is it?"

"Surely you know that the proletariat labors under a deep malaise in this exploitative system."

Vaskhnil nodded. "That goes without saying, doctor."

"The more enlightened psychologists have posited that capitalism causes mental illness. This is of course a half-truth, as my research has proven that capitalism -is- a mental illness! The bourgeois are greatly diseased, and the richer they are, the more diseased their minds!"

"One would have to be insane to oppose a perfect Communist society."

"Indeed. But with this we can finally cure them and bring about the global revolution!" Taking a squeeze bottle off the table, he poured the contents of the beaker into into it before screwing on the cap. "All we need is a test subject, and I know the perfect one."

*****

"Can you smell it?" Lysenko sneered. He glared at the store fronts of the mall as he walked by, Vaskhnil trailing behind him. "The reek emanating from these churches of capitalism?"

"Well doctor," Vaskhnil said, "I -do- smell the gyro meat from-"

"It was a metaphor!" Looking into the distance, he pointed. "But there. Our test subject!"

Vaskhnil followed Lysenko's gesture to a young redheaded woman with pigtails who, to put it politely, was massively obese. Her blue and white striped dress was large and yet clearly made for someone smaller than her, her breasts straining the top and the folds of her stretch mark-lined gut pushing it up and spilling out beneath her apron nearly to her knees. Lardy legs were stuffed into thigh-high striped stockings, cellulite visible along her thighs. In the sausage-like fingers of one hand she held a exorbitantly-sized burger, the sagging fat on her arms swaying as she brought it to her mouth and took bites out of it, grease-covered jowls and double chin bouncing as she chewed and slobbered.

"I can certainly smell her," Vaskhnil said.

Lysenko nodded. "Yes, the scent of the decadence and deceitfulness of the ruling class."

"More that I'm not sure she's bathed in the past month."

He rolled his eyes. "Just follow me and watch my brilliance in action."

As they approached she turned her attention towards them, giving them a smug smile. "Hey losers, are you gonna eat at one of these other dumps, or did you want some -real- food for a change?"

Forcing down his revulsion, Lysenko forced a smile. "Good day to you. We've been sent here by your employers-"

"We have?" Vaskhnil asked.

Lysenko elbowed him in the ribs. "-to test out a new secret sauce," he continued, holding up the squeeze bottle.

She eyed it eagerly. "Really." Peeling back the top bun of her burger, she held it out to him. "Lay it on. If it's made by our guys it's definitely better than that Szechuan garbage the clown serves."

Lysenko obliged, squirting a thick layer of fluid onto the oddly-shaped patty, and she slapped it back together before taking a few messy bites. Resting one hand on Vaskhnil's shoulder he backed away, motioning for him to remain silent and watch.

The young woman swallowed, smacking her lips. "Not bad. It's kind of peppercorn-y, and..." Her eyes went glassy and unfocused for a moment, and the burger slipped from her fingers, falling to the ground with a wet splat. She wobbled on her feet before staring down at her hands in horror. "I'm... I'm corporate propaganda!" she shrieked. "An attempt at humanizing a faceless oligarchy!"

All at once, the weight on her frame began to diminish. The flab on her legs melted away, stocking sliding to her ankles; from there they grew toned, the sign of a life of exertion and labor. She held a hand to the side of her head as her thoughts swam, the dangling chicken wings on her arms shrinking away. "Workers estranged... distracted from the class struggle!" The grease on her palms disappeared as her skin grew grew calloused, the hands of one who benefited from the fruits of their own labor.

Not only her body, but her clothes changed as well. As the rolls of fat on her belly receded her apron lengthened, and her stockings rose up her legs again as the material of both shifted, the strands changing and re-weaving themselves into a thick fabric to form a set of sturdy overalls. Beneath it, her striped dress rode up on her and became a striped shirt, her outfit austere yet a perfect uniform for a disciple of the socialist revolution.

As her body shed the last of its weight, now clean, muscled, and suitable for Stakhanovian feats, she gained a sudden clarity. Her perception was sharper, not only gaining the vision necessary to selflessly put the needs of the society above her own, but the wisdom of the working class, distinguished and above the ivory tower intelligentsia. She was, in all ways, the woman of the future; the Communist woman; the New Soviet Woman.

Lysenko stared in awe, his lips parting in a wide open-mouthed smile. "It worked." He laughed wildly, taking Vaskhnil by the arms and spinning him around in joy. "It worked! My cure worked! I've transformed this false prophet of the bourgeois into the perfect Soviet citizen!"

The young woman regarded Lysenko oddly. "'Transformed?'" She gave a derisive snort. "You've done nothing of the sort, comrade doctor. I've always been loyal to the Party."

They stopped, staring at each other in confusion before turning to her. "...yes!" Lysenko said hesitantly. "Yes, of course! Far be it from me to doubt you."

She nodded. "Very well then, if you'll excuse me." She leapt onto a nearby table, pulling out a Soviet flag. "WORKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE! YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT YOUR CHAINS!"

Lysenko put his arm around Vaskhnil's shoulder. "We've done good this day, Vaskhnil. History will remember us as true revolutionaries!"

*****

The young woman passed the clerk from the Historical Truth Bureau two photographs clipped to a sheaf of paper. "I want you to remove these two men from any historical records or monuments we have."

He paged through the papers. "Who are they?"

"Nobody, which is precisely what you'll be if you don't get it done immediately."


End file.
